Sensory Overload
by Ezra Scarlet
Summary: Sherlock has never coped well with large crowds. John's wedding was no exception.


Disclaimer: I own nothing.

0o0

Mary and John swepped across the dance floor, dancing in tune to the sound of his Violin. Sherlock was only half paying attention to his hands weaving the music.

His brain was currently going into something he named _"sensory overload."_

Sherlock always did his best to avoid large crowds. His few friends knew that he didn't like crowds, and simply wrote it off as another one of his little perks. But it wasn't that at all. When in crowds, he found it hard to concentrate. His mind flew across the faces, their clothes, the way they walked or held themselves, and spat out deductions like there was no tomorrow. His brain whirled and whizzed and sent him into a confused flurry. His brain left him unfocused, and out of control. It was only by mere will power that he still managed to drag his bow over the strings of his violin. Only for his precious people did he ever make such an effort.

Finally, the song came to and end, and Mary and John turned to him and applauded. Sherlock gave a small bow, and a strained smile. Sherlock jumped off of his perch from where he had been playing, into the arms of the awaiting crowd. Many people patted him on the back, applauded him for such skillful playing. They invaded his personal space, making Sherlock want to start screaming. If this night wasn't so important to John, he wouldn't have even considered coming.

Finally though, the crowd dispersed, and he was able to breath. Without even a second thought, he bolted for the door. But a hand on his forearm stopped him from leaving.

"C'mon Sherlock, this way. Keep your eyes on the ground."

In any other situation, Sherlock would've protested against being led away, least of all by his brother. But his mind was still screaming at him, picking up pieces of information and not even giving him a chance too delete them. Following his brothers advice, Sherlock tried to concentrate on the spiderweb cracks that ran through the concrete ground. Eventually, Mycroft lead him out onto the patio, which was separated from the dining hall only by thin glass doors. Sherlock would've preferred to have just left the wedding completely, but it would seem Mycroft had other ideas.

Shrugging himself out of his brothers grip, Sherlock stalked off to the side, trying to catch his breath without letting his brother see him. Only Mycroft knew of his little "problem," as Mycroft put it. He had caught him many a time when Sherlock was suffering from sensory overload. Sherlock hated it. Out of all people, it was Mycroft who had to see him like this. So vulnerable, and, dare he say it, scared. Sherlock had never told anyone about it (Mycroft didn't count. He figured it out himself) because it made Sherlock feel pathetic. To think, he couldn't even control his own ability! How sad was that?

"Sherlock."

He refused to turn towards his brother, opting to keep staring at the wall. Mycroft gave a small sigh of resignation, before coming to stand near Sherlock. By now, Sherlock's had calmed down enough to regain his composure, and now stared icily at his brother.

"Would you like something, Mycroft?"

Mycroft himself had smoothed over his appearance so as to appear unaffected by his brothers small breakdown. He didn't let the small amount of pity he felt for his brother show on his face. Sherlock would not appreciate that. He would not appreciate that at all.

"It's gotten worse, hasn't it?"

Mycroft didn't need to elaborate. They both knew to what he was referring too. Sherlock gave a small snort.

"Just leave it alone brother. Go back inside, have a slice of cake. I'm sure you'll be able to indulge for one night."

Mycroft continued to talk as if Sherlock had not said anything.

"I guess it's bound to happen. It was bad before your supposed suicide. And I guess being away for two years doesn't help things. It's only fair to think that your aversion to human contact would grow. But,"

And now Mycroft paused, giving a small frown,

"I never thought it would get this bad. You can barely stand to go out in public anymore Sherlock. You need help."

"I don't _need _anything, brother dearest," Sherlock bit out, not liking the conversation topic one bit.

"Just leave me alone to calm down for a bit, and I'll be _fine. _So why don't you take your concern and give it too someone else, because I neither want nor need it."

Sherlock's tone was biting and sharp, something Mycroft was used too. What he wasn't used too was the almost desperate edge in Sherlock s voice. Mycroft allowed a small amount of his emotion to appear on his face.

And he moment he did, he could literally see the walls going up behind Sherlock s eyes. With a sigh, Mycroft gave in, patted his little brother on the shoulder, and left to rejoin the party.

Sherlock did not watch him go, preferring to eye the ground from where he currently stood. Several times he attempted to rejoin the party, but each time the sensory overload came back worse than before, and so he opted to just stay outside.

Sherlock could hear them all. Some were laughing, some were crying, there were even kids running about, shouting. He listened to all the sounds, taking them in, basking in them. It was times like these when Sherlock s loneliness come back full force. It was something about himself that he was constantly confused about. He liked being alone. He liked the quietness that came when one was alone, that time it gave one to think about themselves. But sometimes, when he lay on the couch at home, no John in the house to liven things up, he got this empty feeling in his chest that made him want to seek out company. He couldn't recall the amount of times lately he had been bugging Lestrade for a case, went to spend time with Mrs. Hudson in her small flat, or call Molly up for a talk.

And it was with annoyance at himself (Because he wasn't supposed to feel anything. Emotions were a weakness, fickle, and annoying) that he realized that though he liked being alone, he didn't fancy being lonely.

But now was not the time too continue to dwell on such thoughts. Now was time too return too the party, which would be ending shortly. With an action Sherlock had used many times before, he shoved his fist into the concrete wall, effectively bruising and maybe even breaking his hand. The pain managed to block out the thoughts that threatened too overcome him, as it had done many times before.

Shoving his hand into his pocket so that no one would see the bleeding knuckles, Sherlock left his perch, and prepared to once more battle the crowd.

0o0

A/N Found this story on my hardrive, something I had completely forgotten about. I just gave it a quick once over so there may be a few mistakes, and it's probably not all that good. Hope you enjoyed it though. Btw, this story was inspired by the poem below.

0o0

_I like drinking coffee alone, and reading alone._

_I like riding the bus alone, and walking home alone._

_It gives me time to think, and set my mind free._

_I like eating alone, and listening to music alone._

_But when I see a mother with her child;_

_A girl with her lover;_

_Or a friend laughing with their best friend;_

_I realize that even though I like being alone_

_I don't fancy being lonely._


End file.
